


Boundaries

by pippen2112



Series: War Wounds [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative Universe - Soulmarks, Canon-typical language, Gen, M/M, Not Your Typical Soulmate Fic, Project Freelancer, Soulmarks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 21:11:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8342893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippen2112/pseuds/pippen2112
Summary: "I don't get that kid."---As the Freelancers wonder about Agent Washington, North discovers why the rookie never takes off his armor.***edit Feb 16, 2017 for formatting





	

**Author's Note:**

> This alternative universe hinges on soulmarks, names that appear on a person's body at various points in one's life. Some people have many names. Some have few. Some have none. It is commonly believed in the universe of this story that soulmarks are the names of your soulmate(s), but evidence is inconclusive.

**Boundaries**

"I don't get that kid."

North looks up from cleaning his rifle, automatically eyeing York across the table.  York's attention is across the room, on their newest recruit drinking a protein shake through a ridiculous yellow curly straw. 

"Wash?"

York nods.  "He's wound so tight I'd be worried he'd go postal on us if a mission goes sideways."

"He's a professional," North says as he cleans the barrel and double checks the sights.

"There's professional, and then there's paranoid.  Seriously, have you ever seen the kid out of armor?"

North opens his mouth to protest, but his words stick in his throat.  Washington has been with Freelancer for four months now, and honestly, he's only seen the kid out of armor once when medics rushed him into surgery after an early mission gone wrong; even then, the medics hadn't pried off the helmet until Washington was behind closed doors.  And though every Freelancer has their own quirks, most of them know how to hang up their helmets and revel in a little downtime.  Not Agent Washington.  Any time he's socialized off mission, he's always been in armor. 

North's mouth snaps shut, and York throws a grin his way.  "Told you."

"Shut up."

#

Over the next few weeks, York ribs Agent Washington almost mercilessly, getting Wyoming and Florida in on the gag.  Even South throws a few pieces of misinformation his way when she's not off fuming about Carolina pulling rank and showing off every chance she gets.  North plays mediator as often as he can, but he's one man, and he's away as often as he's there.  But Washington holds his head high, plays up his deadpan reactions, and slowly learns to take the other Freelancer's "advice" with a grain of salt. 

That should be the end of it, and Washington's peculiarity should just become another part of life on the Mother of Invention--just like Maine's near-mute communication style or Wyoming's shitty comedic timing--but midway through a one-on-one training session, Washington drops York with a well-placed kick.  From the sidelines, North watches York thump his head back on the mat like the melodramatic pre-teen he is at heart before begrudgingly offering, "You're getting faster, Wash.  Won't be long 'til you're giving 'Lina a run for her money."

Even though the visor is tinted, North can almost imagine Washington blushing before he lets his posture loosen and rubs the back of his neck reflexively.  "Don't let her hear you say that."

"Too late," Carolina says over comms, caught up in her own sparring session against Maine.

North chuckles when Washington ducks despite the lack of projectile aimed at him.  York laughs too and lets Washington haul him to his feet.  York rolls his shoulders.  "What do you say we make this interesting?"  York says, his voice dropping lower, on the cusp of intimidating but still perfectly cordial.

Washington's hands ball at his sides for just a moment before he shifts back into his fighting stance.  "Go on."

"You win this next one, I'll make the long march back to my quarters buck-ass nude."

"Am I supposed to _want_ to see your pasty ass?" Washington quips.

"I've been told it's glorious," York says, his smirk audible.  "A majestic lunar experience."

North rolls his eyes.  _Knew that compliment would come back to haunt me_.

"And the stakes?" Washington asks.

"If I win, you take off your helmet."

A hush falls over the sparring room. The other Freelancers still their matches, turning toward the pair in the far corner.  North can't help his furrowed brow.  Sounds like a one-sided deal to anyone that doesn't know York is a raging exhibitionist, i.e. Agent Washington.  It should be a no brainer.  Except Washington drops his stance, turns on heel, and marches for the sparring room doors. 

No one says a word; even York is stunned silent.  Once the sparring room doors slide closed behind the youngest Freelancer, Carolina crosses the room in fluid strides and smacks York on the back of the helmet.  "What'd I do?" York squawks, equally surprised by Washington and Carolina's reactions.

"You were an asshole, that's what."

"Who would've guessed at that reaction?"

"Doesn't matter, York.  He's your teammate.  He has to be able to trust you on missions.  Go and apologize."

York goes quiet, hands tensing at his sides, shoulders stiff.  Nothing good's gonna come of that. 

North pushes himself to his feet and unclasps his helmet.  He lays a gentle hand on Carolina's shoulder as he pulls off his helmet and gives her a stern look. "They're both in no fit state to make amends, 'Lina.  Give 'em a few hours to cool off first."

Carolina goes rigid, like she's ready to turn and slug him in the face for stepping in.  No, that's what South would do if he showed her up in front of the team.  In the millisecond it takes for Carolina to crunch the numbers and realize he may have a point, hers posture deflates.  She nods slowly.  "Check in on Wash?"

North nods.  "He's my next stop."

#

Agent Washington isn't in his quarters.  He's not in the weight room, the mess, or the rec room.  North doesn't find him until he checks the locker room on a whim and finds a man slumped on a bench with his back to the door.  A man who's paler than York, slimmer than Maine, and not covered in Wyoming's coarse black hair.  A man who can only be Washington.

But North hesitates at the locker room door.  He can't tear his eyes away from Washington's back.  Amid sun-kissed freckles and battle-forged muscles, Washington's skin is littered with names.  Words inked in foreign hands.  Raised welts born in battle.  Rosy white scars.  From the nape of his neck to the curve of his spine where his undersuit pools around his hips, Agent Washington is covered.

Despite himself, North gasps.  In one instant, Washington's spine goes rigid.  His head snaps up, tension rippling over his shoulders and down his arms.  "I swear to God, York, if you say one damn word, I will end you."

North can't help his muted chuckle.  It probably says something not-so-reassuring about his mental state that he finds that much venom in one sentence borderline adorable.  "Good thing I'm not York, huh?"

Washington whips around in his seat, far enough North can see the scars stretch onto his torso and arms, too.  In one second, all the wrath drains out of Washington's hardened gaze.  He looks down at his bare skin and tugs his undersuit back on.  His ears are bright red.

Instead of approaching, North leans in the doorway, drumming his fingers on his helmet.  He hears the sharp sound of a zipper being tugged up and says, "Everything okay?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

North stares at Washington's mess of blonde cowlicks, considering.  "Because I'm having this conversation with the back of your head."

For a moment, Washington stiffens further, then bolts upright and turns toward North, rising to the challenge.  "I'm fine," he snaps before the fight goes out of him again and his shoulders slump.  "Just...tired.  It's been a long day."

North doesn't need an infrared scope to see through that pile of bullshit, but before he can say anything, he spies a name peeking out of the collar of Washington's undersuit, an unfamiliar name written in York's swoopy chicken scratch, the letters sharp and dark.  Before he can speak, Washington covers the soulmark like North's gaze is irritating him. 

North's throat constricts.  _No wonder he's so antsy about taking off his helmet._ "I'm sorry.  None of us are great at boundaries."

But Agent Washington lets out a hard laugh and tugs down the collar of his undersuit.  Amidst the scars, North sees dozen-odd names he doesn't recognize in handwriting he's seen on numerous Freelancer reports, and two he's known as long as he's lived.  Project Freelancer laid out on one agent's skin. 

Gaping between the cluster of names none of them were meant to know and Agent Washington's haggard expression, North gulps.

"Yeah," Wash offers with a self-deprecating grin.  "Me neither."

**Author's Note:**

> Any questions, comments, concerns, or constructive criticism are welcome!


End file.
